


Glorious Aftermath

by skydark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Fallen Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skydark/pseuds/skydark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lions, tigers, bears and the occasional angel, oh my.  A PWP one-shot as a birthday fic for my beta!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glorious Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bob-fish](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bob-fish).



“Lions and tigers and bears, oh my, lions and tigers and bears, oh my,” Dean whispered to himself from his hiding place. 

It was important to work the psyche, to charge oneself up before making a mad jump into fight or flight. He couldn't hear anything; he couldn't see far because of the inky darkness and he didn't know where the hell Sam was. That was probably the worst of all. He felt more than heard the movement near him, the old floorboards of the warehouse giving off the barest movement, the most minute of creaks. It was followed by a harsh exhale of breath into the night around them, then a hitching soft growl on the inhale. He was so fucking screwed. Werewolves? Those he could handle, but who the fuck ever ran across a were-tiger; and not just one, three of the fucking things, together, in one flea-bitten little town? It made no sense, then of course, as of late a lot of things made no sense. He kept crouched, trying to hold his breath in long spurts, only sucking in the tiniest gasps of air. He'd seen the remains in the morgue: these bastards just didn't fuck around. In fact when confronted, there was no negotiation, no threats, no bravado, just a shimmering snap in the air and transformation and he and Sam running and running, splitting up and running. 

He'd lost his shotgun in the first attack, almost going down under the bastard before he was able to turn the gun up and fire into its belly; it only slowed him down enough for Dean to roll free, regain his feet and run. He heard shotgun blasts in the distance — Sam — and then again silence. All he had now was his handgun. The warehouse around them was filled from top to bottom with rusting, rotting equipment from a bygone era of forgotten textiles. He was resourceful; he could improvise if he had to. He hadn't come ill-prepared: silver bullets, two total, rattled in his pocket when he moved. He was afraid to fish them out now, risk the sound of his gun magazine being ejected and the bullets loaded. The feeling of presence left him and he risked a peek outside of where he was crouched: so far, so good. He moved crouched low to the floor, weaving between heavy machines, heading toward the door. 

The door was drawing closer, and closer and then that faint and tiny noise from ... above? He did a quick turn, a jerk up of his head, and five hundred pounds of were creature launched itself at him from an overhead beam and he twisted frantically to get out of the way, but it caught his shoulder and sent him sprawling down on his back and then he glimpsed the second one as it came bounding out of hiding, all eager fangs and claws. Before he could roll away, it had his arm in its mouth, eager to drag him into the shadows. The first one roared it's denial, grabbing Dean by a leg. Dean could hardly catch his breath to scream as they fought over him like this, back and forth across the wooden floor. He almost blacked out when his arm finally snapped. Abruptly he was released, dropping hard to the floor and they fought over him, swiping at each other with massive paws, snarling and shrieking over the prey. Dean rolled to his stomach, one arm limp and useless, the hot stickiness and reek of blood all around him, and, using his last two functioning limbs, he tried to drag himself toward the door.

There were bad ways to go, and being eaten alive? He figured that was one of the very worst.

But then the snarling and growling went silent behind him. He didn't think and he moved his hand into his pocket, groping as he slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder and the Shere Khan of every child's nightmare rose up on two legs, with hands as big as hub caps and claws as long as knives. It rolled its shoulders and stalked toward him, the second one rising up behind it. His fingers closed over his cell phone. He panicked, trapping his hand in his pocket for precious seconds until he ripped it free, flipped it open and jammed his thumb over the first button on the keypad. Then it had him.

He was hoisted aloft, phone slipping from his hand to clatter on the floor below him and he was raised up high until he was totally suspended and gold eyes bore into his own and the man-tiger thing licked its lips.

“Calling in the reserves? We'd love that,” it said in a voice of chains over gravel, “you're not going to be much of a meal with two of us here.”

“I'd really appreciate it if you would promise me to join WeightWatchers after this,” Dean slurred, not bothering to struggle or hide his pain, “fat cat bastards.” He got shook for his efforts, then dropped to the floor again, and he sobbed out, pain making his vision dance and tunnel, he panted through it.

There was rending and tearing then, his shirts and jeans being shredded and he flailed wildly with his only available arm.

“What are you doing?” said the second one, standing over him now, watching with disinterest.

“I don't want to eat denim,” the first one snapped. “It's hell to digest.”

“Leave the boots though, they're leather,” the second one said. “With a foot inside it's like bacon wrapped.”

There was a sound then, a beautiful sound that Dean had heard both in life and his in dreams for a few years now. A sound of relief and hope: the flap of a wing. He was released as his chefs turned to the newcomer, wary and tense. 

The angel came forward, pausing only to scoop the abandoned cell phone off the floor. He flipped it closed and pocketed it, then he stopped, regarded the two creatures and said mildly, “You will release him now.”

The both started a low rumble; they seemed unwilling to leave their bleeding, half-naked prey. The larger of the two gave an open-mouthed snarl as the second one shifted without thought back into full tiger form. It began to pace a wide circle around them.

“Cas,” Dean managed to croak, trying to push himself up, but the were tiger in humanoid form still beside him casually kicked his hand, and Dean thumped back down to the floor.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas addressed him, “please give me a moment to sort this out.”

“Take your time,” Dean slurred, “but hurry, gotta find Sammy.”

**

“I would not advise touching him again,” Cas said in the same mild tone, seemingly unheeding or uncaring of the second were-tiger, which had positioned itself behind him in easy striking distance.

“I'm sure you would advise a lot of things were you in the position to advise us,” said the tiger beside Dean, “but he has called you to your doom and we are both hungry.” Then on some unspoken and unseen signal, the two attacked at once.

Cas moved in the way light moved. He stood to the side as the two creatures collided with each other, striking the ground and scrabbling back to their feet, either two or four. The larger one snorted and the second one shifted back to his mid state. Cas turned his attention then to Dean on the floor and walked toward him. Both tigers advanced again at once: the large one going low, the other one using his back as a vault to come over the top of him, strike from above. Castiel half turned then, catching the airborne one, twisting him neatly and slamming him down onto the back of the other one. He raised his hand, sword already drawn and drove it down with one hard, swift motion. It entered the throat of the one on top and pierced through the skull of the one below. and all movement stilled. He yanked his blade free, wiped it free of blood on the receding fur of the one on top's chest and left the two corpses there. He squatted beside Dean.

“You are one badass motherfucker,” Dean said, “remind me not to piss you off.”

“I often remind you, it doesn't seem to do any good,” Cas informed him as he rolled him gently onto his back. “They were mere were-creatures, not much trouble.” He pressed fingers to Dean's forehead.

**

He couldn't go much higher and the tiger below him was laughing. It was eerie and disconcerting, especially when the tiger stood up on two legs and began climbing the tree after him. He was well and truly fucked. He'd emptied the last of his clip into its head just moments ago, but typical of supernatural creatures, it had just shrugged the bullets off. The tiger had barely gotten off the ground when it yelped and unceremoniously slid back down the tree, claws spraying bark, and it only got out half a growl on the ground before there was silence. Sam squinted down through the branches and made out a figure on the ground at the base.

“Hello, Sam,” Cas called up to him.

**

Dean stood in the motel room, still bloody and wearing tatters. Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed picking pine needles out of his hair, and Cas was standing near the door, unruffled and calm. It made Dean want to laugh. 

“This is my life man, this is my life. I was a chew toy for two tigers, had my ass rescued by an angel and now all I can think about is ... is ... getting a second motel room,” Dean said with a sigh. 

Sam said nothing. Instead he got up, grabbed his duffle and moved Cas out of the way to get to the door.

“I can take very large hints and it's cool man, I got this one,” he opened the door. “Thanks for the save, Cas,” he said, and he left, just like that.

“I don't understand,” Cas said, still looking at the door Sam had exited through. He turned slowly back to Dean. “Why would a life threatening situation make you think of isolation?”

“I'm not isolated,” Dean said, “you're still here. You never get it Cas, it's a sex thing, okay? It's a sex thing.”

It wasn't as if he and Cas didn't partake on occasion. It was enough of a novelty to keep the angel intrigued and, well, Dean just liked satisfying his curiosity. Teaching Cas the way of humans; oh, the hell with it, he just liked being naked with Cas. 

Cas, for his part, actually showed some animation finally when Dean mentioned sex.

“Oh,” he said with a very slight upward tilt of one side of his mouth, and he reached up to remove his tie.

“Yeah, oh,” Dean echoed, rolled his eyes and started to peel away what actually remained of his clothes. “I don't know, man, watching you waste things without breaking a sweat makes me all hot and bothered for some reason.”

“I'm glad,” Cas said, shrugging off his trench coat and starting on his shirt buttons. “I find I like our activities when you are aroused. I am still unclear of the parameters of how to achieve arousal in you at appropriate moments. I appreciate the suggestion I undress manually as opposed to merely willing my clothing away; I have found this does increase my chances of being able to achieve this state in your when I wish to, if Sam isn't in the room. Sam tends to object to this if not warned beforehand.” Cas started on his belt then.

“Uh huh,” Dean said, sitting slowly down on the side of the bed to watch.

“I don't know why, it's not as if I want to have sexual congress with Sam. In fact I find that whole image preposterous, it's not sexually arousing at all,” Cas continued.

“Stop talking about sex and Sam in the same sentence,” Dean reminded him.

“Apologies,” Cas said gravely. 

Cas got his belt loose, undid his pants. He then toed off his shoes, bent to work his socks off and gripped his pants and boxers and slide them off, stepping out of them, leaving them there in a puddle on the floor. Cas in just an undone button-up was, well, one of Dean's favorite things. So Dean stood back up, came over and pushed the shirt down off his shoulders so he could indulge in kissing over them.

“You're not naked,” Cas pointed out helpfully, and Dean felt Cas' fingers tug at the waist band of his jeans, he imagined Cas' long fingers working the button, pulling the zipper, worming their way into the waistband of his boxers and he shuddered a breath, turning to mouth the side of Cas' neck. All his predictions came true: Cas was far less interested in getting Dean naked than he was getting his hand inside Dean's pants. Cas' palm was dry and warm and it fit over Dean's cock perfectly. Dean made a slight mock growl and grinned, worried the side of Cas' neck lightly with his teeth and decided on a place to suck. Cas was forever accommodating: tilting his head, rubbing the heel of the hand down Dean's cock, curling his fingertips to cup Dean's balls. Dean spread his legs as much as he could.

“I know that your eagerness should be a sign you desire my touch, and that should feed into my ego,” Cas said, his other hand traveling down Dean's back now, bunching in the soft fabric of his t-shirt, “but the thing is, I'm not sure how to process a reaction for the ego. I rather like just doing as I'm doing and not having to process a complicated emotional response that has nothing to do with arousal.”

“Are you reading Cosmopolitan again?” Dean gasped out. “I told you to stop filling your head with trendy psycho-babble crap. Let's just rut; men rut and fuck, it's simple. Fuck, Cas, make me naked, let's get on the bed.” And no sooner than Dean said it, it was done. Cas was still over him, straddling his legs and rubbing his erection and wow, angel mojo seriously rocked.

“But shouldn't this be an ego thing?” Cas continued above him even as he wrapped those long fingers around Dean's cock. “Shouldn't I process a reaction of smugness or self righteousness or at the very least possessiveness? I should be trying to experience these things, Dean, so I may make our joining more fulfilling in the future.”

“Cas,” Dean groaned, arching into his hand, “I don't really give a fuck at this moment what you want to feel, let's just get physical. Fuck, you made me quote Olivia Newton-John.” Dean gripped Cas' thighs and rocked up. “How about you process a reaction to having my dick in your hand? You can even process enough of a reaction to put your dick where you want it to go. Here, you wanna go here?” Dean opened his mouth and showed Cas his tongue. “I'm good with my tongue,” he said, somewhat garbled as he was currently sticking it out of his mouth.

“Tempting,” Cas said seriously, “but I'd have to release you to do so and I like having you in my palm. I like stimulating you and watching you move as I do so; your involuntary reactions are fascinating. You're flushing right now and you have a bare hint of sweat to your scent. I like it when your bangs plaster to your forehead and when you tighten your muscles and make them stand out. You are very physically appealing, Dean, and a true joy to observe in pleasure. My Father's design is flawless,” Cas sighed, eyes going half mast. “I believe he created beauty in pleasure and it is epitomized in you.”

“I don't want to hear heavenly psycho-babble either,” Dean sobbed out, “but fuck is that some fucked up way of telling me I'm beautiful? I'm a guy, Cas, I don't need to hear that, you really think that? Fuck, Cas, harder and please, do something with your dick. I really, really want you to react to whatever it is you have to react to with your dick, inside me is good, too.” 

“Oh, I do like that invitation,” Cas said, eyes getting a far away look. “You seem exceptionally willing to please me this time. What has changed the dynamic?”

“Cas,” Dean half wailed, “fine, okay. You saved me from being eaten by fucking tiger monsters, okay? You're like my hero or some shit right now and I just ... I just ... I just get off on watching you smite shit, okay? That makes me some fucked up asshole, doesn't it? But it's _hot_ and you're all ... fuck! Please, Cas, just fuck me, okay? Okay?”

Cas was beaming, as much of a smile as he ever gave Dean, a slight up curl of his lips, and it looked so good on him and he made Dean feel all this stupid shit he didn't know how to process. 

“I like being a hero to you,” Cas confided. “I want to be as many things as you need, when I can.”

“Okay, then, I need you right now to be the guy who fucks me through the mattress.” Dean said, sucking in his lower lip.

“Okay,” Cas said brightly. Cas knew the preparations, he suddenly had lube in his hands, and that was a heavenly miracle as far as Dean was concerned. Cas was always slow and deliberate with fingering and it was fucking great and fucking frustrating and Cas would watch him intently while he squirmed to Cas' fingers and that was fucking great and fucking embarrassing as well. Cas still wore his little smile as he lifted one of Dean's legs and hooked it over his shoulder. Dean took deep breathes, relaxed and knocked the heel of his other leg into the small of Cas' back to show his growing impatience and hurry Cas along. Cas pursed his lips at this, made a tiny snort and it was just so fucking adorable that Dean wondered about having to turn in his man card. But then Cas was ready and lining up and pressing in and most of Dean's higher brain functions fled at the stretch and burn and he groaned his appreciation and Cas began to move.

**

There was glorious aftermath. The bed had actually moved and one of the side tables had tipped over and the lamp was on the floor. There was a large scratch in the ugly wallpaper behind the headboard and the mattress had managed to move down a good foot. Cas was lying mostly on Dean's side, the top of his head against the side of Dean's jaw and one leg over Dean's legs. Dean might never walk again, but he really didn't care; it wasn't like he ever wanted to move again, anyways. Dean was stroking the back of Cas' neck and Cas made a little sound like a sigh.

“That was awesome,” Dean said, his voice a wreck. “I like it when you have reactions.”

“You seem to think a shotgun approach is best,” Cas returned, not even sounding out of breath. “Sex is your general solution to everything; but I do believe I see its merits.” Cas moved then, sat up. “Is there anything I need to heal?” he asked Dean.

“Nah, I'm good with the soreness, I like remembering how I got sore,” and he grinned. “Hey, you're not leaving, are you?”

“Your current crisis is adverted,” Cas said, “and we've had celebratory sex as is your norm. There are things I need to attend to.”

“Can you attend to them in the morning?” Dean pressed. “You don't have to go right this second, do you?”

“Well they aren't that urgent but … are you experiencing anxiety over the fact I want to leave so soon after we've had sexual intercourse?” Cas got a look of consternation on his face. “I would not wish you to have feelings of being objectified or inadequate. I assure you I have ever intention of returning in the near future. I will even call if you wish.”

“What no, quit watching Dr. Phil already!” Dean said up, dragged the sheet over his lap. “I don't know, maybe I need you to be here in the morning every once in a while. Fuck, whatever!” He threw the sheet off then, got up and stalked into the bathroom and shut the door harder than necessary. What the fuck was his problem? Cas said some stupid half-assed nosy opinion from a TV program and made Dean feel like he was being a psychotic girlfriend. He had only been in there for a minute when there was a quiet and tentative knock on the door.

“Dean?” Cas said, muffled through the pressboard. “Do you need to talk about this?”

“ _No_ , get out of here, quit being _Sam_ , Jesus!” Dean yelled back.

“Have I hurt your feelings?” Cas continued on. “ You were so happy only moments ago. What can I do? Do you want to spoon? How do I know how to approach this if you won't tell me what's wrong? I don't have any references. Oh.” Then it got quiet for a moment and Dean listened hard, ear to the door. He heard movement then and footsteps back over to the door. There was another knock.

“Dean? I brought you pie,” Cas said.

Dean yanked the door open, best snarl in place.

“You can't buy me with pie, Cas!” Oh my fuck, did he really just say that? “What kind?” Fuck, did he really just say that, too?

“A variety,” Cas said starting to reach out to touch Dean, but stopping. “Pecan and coconut cream among them and a chicken pot as well in case you wanted something savory rather than sweet.”

It was an impasse; they both stood there looking at each other. Dean yanked a towel down off the rack, tied it around his waist so he wasn't the only one naked in the equation.

“I'm not trying to buy you. For one, you don't have a seller and slavery is abhorrent,” Cas said, “I'm only trying to repair whatever I did wrong. I know you like pie. My feelings of inadequacy are very strong right now, is that placating?”

“Cas,” Dean groaned, slung an arm over his shoulders and kissed him soundly on the cheek. “Stop learning all the stupid emotions, okay? You didn't have to get me pie, but since you did, let's eat it in bed, and you just be here in the morning, okay? I know you don't sleep, so if I go to sleep, you can flap out to do whatever, but just be here in the morning. I won't feel like a cheap hook-up then. Even though you paying me should technically should make me feel like a whore, it doesn't, because somehow I suspect I would actually whore myself out for pie if I was desperate.”

Cas smiled his little smile again and this time he let Dean tug his clothes off and then he laid around in bed as Dean ate pie with his fingers and he even ate a few bites himself for the camaraderie. And after Dean feel asleep, he cleaned them both up and just lay there; because really, there was nothing so pressing it couldn't wait until morning. He got to spoon with Dean after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday to my lovely beta, Bob-Fish! Written as a one-shot, tequila motivated and sent piece by piece in the late night hours drooling love for my beta the entire time. She puts up with a lot.


End file.
